I Hear America Singing
by Crystal Kira
Summary: He goes out, remembering, and searching for some sign that he'll be okay.


**A/N: Inspired by the poem of the same name, look it up if you're interested.**

**Enjoy.**

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Alfred F. Jones gazed out the windows, at the blue, blue sky, ignoring whatever his boss and some senators were discussing.

Tragedy always seemed to strike at the most unexpected moments, he mused.

A beautiful, clear, sunny day, everything as it usually was. He'd been enjoying a stroll after another tiresome, very boring meeting. It really was just another normal day.

At least, until the planes slammed into him, tearing him down, destroying so much, killing so many, ruining everything, _ and it hurt so much_-

And he stops, catches himself, reminds himself that it's over. It's been over for a long time.

But the memories haunt him.

He was there, that day, if only coincidentally, and he saw the planes hit, he saw them collapsing, he was overcome by the clouds of debris, he saw people running, _he heard them screaming and dying and-_

He stops. Takes a deep breath.

He is okay, he reminds himself.

… At least, he will be.

The wounds are healed over, but the scars are still there, clearly visible: two twin gashes on the edge of his forehead, normally obscured by the golden bangs that sweep over them, another on the left side of his chest, dangerously close to his heart.

The Twin Towers. The Pentagon.

It still hurts sometimes. When he thinks back to that day.

"You alright?" One of the many attendants around him turns and asks, noticing his far-off gaze.

He quickly plasters a smile on his face and assures him that he's fine. He excuses himself and leaves for a walk, telling them all that he needs to take a walk for a while. No one questions it.

They never do. They understand.

He is back there again, for yet another meeting. It feels like just any other day, a beautiful, sunny, clear day, but that's what made it feel like _that_ day, too. He can't help but glance up a few times, just to make sure there isn't another plane or two planning on destroying one of his precious cities.

He ambles around, going nowhere in particular. Instead, his goal is simply to observe his people.

He passes through a park first.

He watches the children running around and giggling and tumbling all over themselves. There are a few joggers running through, the bicyclists following behind. There are couples walking hand-in-hand, or perhaps sitting on the fountain's edge while they talk. A man, in a business suit, walks hurriedly past, but he is singing a formal, official-sounding anthem, but under his breath so that he doesn't attract strange looks. A guitarist is seated under a tree, proudly belting out bright and cheery songs.

He walks through the busy streets of SoHo, the major shopping district. He sees women and teenage girls eagerly fluttering around the stores, men of all ages dragged along with them.

He amusedly notes a teenage boy's singing of a random, spontaneous tune, an attempt to amuse himself while his mother is debating over two dresses he could swear look exactly the same.

A little girl playing with her sister is singing "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" in an attempt to show off what she had learned in pre-school.

There is a unique rhythm to SoHo, a shuffle and bustle that conveys excitement and movement, such liveliness. He grins a bit, feeling swept up in the energy.

He works his way through a few indistinct streets, but the people make them memorable.

He encounters a teenage girl, singing a new song she heard to her father as they sit on the steps to their home. Walking past a mechanic shop, a strong voice boomed out a hard-working tune. He encounters some girls playing double-dutch, chanting playful and competitive songs for each other as they try to master the ropes. He walks by a boy who randomly begins spouting out lyrics to a dramatic song, and his friends, with a laugh, join in for a few lines before they all burst into laughter and give each other friendly punches.

He continues, and finds himself overlooking Ground Zero.

He freezes, remembers how utterly terrified he felt that day, the fear of all his people welling up inside him, and he remembers screaming, and running out, trying so hard to help, to try and somehow stop it, in disbelief, denial-

"_No, no, no!"_

_It couldn't be happening, not his towers, not his city, not his people-_

He catches himself as he hears a teenage girl, maybe a young woman, walk past him, singing:

_Open your eyes  
Like I opened mine  
It's only the real world!_

He wryly smiles at the appropriateness of the words, how they snapped him out of his daze, and flashes her a smile, which quickly distracts her and her voice trails off as he walks past. She stops and turns, watching him walk away. She feels a sense of kindred with the man who walked by, but she brushes it off and continues on her way, the bouquet of flowers meant for the memorial in her hands.

He walks by some apartment buildings, and through some open windows, he hears some housewives singing to themselves as they cook or clean. Some teens have their music blasting, but no one complains as they sing along, uninhibited by prying eyes in the safety of their own world.

Thinking of the many youths he has passed, he is reminded of hope. There will be a future for him yet. Feeling a bit bolder, he breaks into a jog and looks around even more as his surroundings change.

There were restaurants everywhere now. Families, businessmen looking to wine and dine potential business partners, couples young and old, friends, they all surrounded him in a wave of amiability and cordiality, of happiness and love. A comforting sense of unity.

He remembered, that day he had been scared.

The United States of America had been scared.

But that same day, he became bold, strong, filled with a patriotic fighting spirit.

The United States of America was rising to the challenge, refusing to be terrorized.

The nation had been united, and they were ready to fight back.

He closed his eyes and remembered the brave souls who took back control of that fourth plane, how they were filled with that spirit, how they fought for him, and their freedom.

Another song jostles him from his reverie, as he had frozen in the middle of a busy sidewalk.

_This is how we'll dance when,  
When they try to take us down!  
This is how we'll sing it!  
This is how we'll stand when  
When they burn our houses down!  
This is what will be, oh, glory!_

Another teenager, listening to an iPod.

He smirks and remembers how the waves of patriotism, the fighting spirit had washed over him, making him stronger than ever before, ready to take on the world, daring them to try to hit him again.

He kick-starts his thought processes again, and continues on his journey, his circle coming to a close soon. Just one last stop.

He finds himself at a Yankees game, easily slipping through security.

The entire stadium stands, puts their hands over their hearts as the flag is raised.

He does the same.

"_Oh say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave,  
O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave?"_

He stays for a few moments as everyone settles down to watch the game, but he leaves soon after and aims for his starting point.

But just as he is nearing the building, where the conference is being held, something makes him pause. There is a ceremony being held in the park from before, there are high school students crowded before a podium where there were a few official-looking individuals, as well as some students, stood.

"_God bless America, my home, sweet, home!_"

He witnesses a boy and a girl, perhaps a couple, perhaps siblings, perhaps friends. They are holding an American flag together, hands over each other's, on the podium, and they raise the flag up high.

The rest of the crowd sings back,

"_God bless America, my home, sweet, home…"_

He sighs contentedly, and looks on proudly.

He turns and returns to his meeting.

"Better?" the same attendant asks him upon his return.

"Much," he laughs in response.

His people are still strong, still living, still fighting.

Still singing.

Still singing strongly of everything he is.

He takes his seat again, and looks out the window again, and he knows.

He will be okay.

_America_ will be okay.

* * *

**A/N: This has been running around my head for a few months now. I finally decided to let it out onto the paper, and I hope it turned out well.**

**For those who are wondering, the first two snippets of lyrics were from "Careful" and "Let the Flames Begin," respectively. Both songs are by Paramore, and very good. I recommend them.**

**Critiques and reviews are appreciated.**


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